It had managed to roll up in
a ball again, but it was not quite the old compact ball; its muscles were
too much torn for that. It had been ripped almost in half, and was still
bleeding profusely.
One Eye scooped out mouthfuls of the blood-soaked snow, and chewed and
tasted and swallowed. This served as a relish, and his hunger increased
mightily; but he was too old in the world to forget his caution. He
waited. He lay down and waited, while the porcupine grated its teeth and
uttered grunts and sobs and occasional sharp little squeals. In a little
while, One Eye noticed that the quills were drooping and that a great
quivering had set up. The quivering came to an end suddenly. There was
a final defiant clash of the long teeth. Then all the quills drooped
quite down, and the body relaxed and moved no more.
With a nervous, shrinking paw, One Eye stretched out the porcupine to its
full length and turned it over on its back. Nothing had happened. It
was surely dead. He studied it intently for a moment, then took a
careful grip with his teeth and started off down the stream, partly
carrying, partly dragging the porcupine, with head turned to the side so
as to avoid stepping on the prickly mass. He recollected something,
dropped the burden, and trotted back to where he had left the ptarmigan.
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